


Femslash February 2018 Drabbles

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, Drabbles, F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13901601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: A collection of short drabbles/ficlets written for Femslash February, between 300-500 words each, originally posted to tumblr.





	1. February 1: Clarke/Anya; Controversy

Clarke waits until her mother, Lincoln, and Nyko have left, until she’s alone with Anya in the quiet of medical’s back room. She’s sitting on one of the beds, swinging her feet. “You know I understood everything you were saying just then,” she tells her. _I picked up quite a lot_ , she doesn’t add, _out there in the wilderness with you._

Anya doesn’t answer at first, just smiles, not the lovely beam of a smile Clarke has been lucky enough to see once or twice, but something closer to a little knowing smirk. She’s running her hands over some jars of herbs, carefully preserved on one of the storage shelves.

“And you’re still in favor of Nyko’s plan?” she asks, finally.

Clarke forces her legs to stop kicking. She feels like a child, unable to sit still, working out every word she cannot say and every step she cannot take with the mad, useless flailing of her limbs.

“Yes. It makes sense. I know it’s going to cause controversy—”

“Moving into Mount Weather?” Anya’s own fingertips freeze, pressed against the corner of a label marked out in Jackson’s careful script. She turns her gaze to Clarke. Her voice is even this time, and her expression the same hard stare she used to try to break Clarke down when they first met. “Controversy isn’t the right word.”

“It’s not moving in. It’s using what’s there, using their medical facilities just like we’ve used their supplies. It’s smart, Anya. It’s what we need to do.”

“Need,” Anya echoes, and drops her hands to her side. She still dresses in her Tri Kru clothes but every now and then, she borrows something of Clarke’s. Today it’s a sweater with holes in the elbows, a dark navy blue that looks black in the poor inside light. “You use that word too much. Don’t you have any sense of the sacred, Clarke?”

The sacred? How can she answer a question like that? The tree was sacred. The _Earth_ was sacred. All of it, once, when imagined from above.

“I do,” she answers quietly. She slides off the bed and to her feet. “But after what happened there, I think I’d call the Mountain profane.”

Anya turns away from her, and Clarke stands with her hands in her pockets wondering if she should try to reach out, try to touch her. Just a hand on her shoulder, maybe. Or both hands on her waist and her nose against her neck.

“You would really go back there?” Anya’s voice is so level that Clarke knows she is putting all her strength into draining the emotion from it. That is why she is so quiet. She has none left for volume.

“I would, if I thought it was what was best for us.”

By _us_ , she means _her people_ , and she means Anya, too, because Anya is one of her own, now. But the way Anya scoffs and clenches her hands into and out of fists, Clarke knows she hears, _for us, not **you**_ , and she wishes yet again that she knew how to explain.


	2. February 3: Clarke/Maya; Spell

Last winter, when Maya was the new girl and Clarke was set to burn her all her bridges instead of building new ones, they got into a stupid argument that has cast a long shadow over everything that came in its wake. What it was, Clarke remembers now, was that Maya bumped into her in art class, causing her to knock a glass of water onto her half-finished watercolor. Just a mistake. But she’d read malice into it. A kink in her mood, a collection of thorns in her mouth. Maya hadn’t shrunk from her, as Clarke had thought she would, and they both got sent out of the room, like children.

She thinks about it now as she sits, feet flat and knees up, on the roof just outside her bedroom window, and watches the beginning of sunset wash pink-orange light across the neighborhood. She can smell the cloudless sky and the leaves of the big oak in the back yard and the first spring flowers, bursting out into the April air.

What she knows about Maya now has opened up a new part of her; she feels herself unfolding from the chest on out. Her shifting origami insides cause a sea sickness, sometimes. At the worst times. She’s hated every moment of it but now, high up enough at last perhaps, and that is why, she feels the same free clarity of purpose that comes with opening the windows at the changing of the seasons. She feels like she’s breathing free and clear for the first time.

An idle fantasy unwinds itself: that Maya does not still eye with that wariness, that the residual spill of their first encounter can finally dry, and that perhaps she might show up around the far corner of the street, walk down the sidewalk past the square houses with their slate roofs and fake shutters and the little gardens out in front, until halfway down the way she spots Clarke up on the roof and waves. And Clarke would come down. From there it is fuzzier. She’s still airing out the rooms, still sinking into her new understanding of herself.

They’d find themselves on her front lawn, fingertips skimming fingertips; she’d push a strand of hair behind Maya’s ear; they would talk about art or maybe not at all. They would end up on the grass. Tiny green pinpricks leaving invisible permanent marks on their bare arms and the backs of their necks.


	3. February 4: Harper/Monroe; Afternoon

Sometimes in the long lazy hours of the afternoon, when they can pretend not to be busy, when the day seems like it will stretch out into the end of the eternity just like the blackness and the stars outside the Ark windows did, Harper and Monroe lie on their backs in the dirt outside their tent and watch the clouds, and pretend they are immortal.

“I think that one,” Harper says, stretching her arm up and pointing, “looks like a rocket ship.”

“Rocket ship? No way.” Monroe scoffs. She knocks her boot against Harper’s boot with an unexpected hard clang, like she’s really insulted.

Harper’s arm waves back and forth, unsteady, as if it were tripping over itself, intoxicated; as if, extended out above her body, it were being buffeted around in the breeze. Such an odd angle to be in: on her back with her vision swamped by the sky. Nothing but a gradient of blue and lighter blue and darker blue, spotted with clouds.

“Well what do you see then?” she asks, and laughs when Monroe just hums, no answer on the tip of her tongue. Harper lets her arm fall back again. It squeezes into the space between their bodies, presses against Monroe’s arm in a cozy and familiar way.

“I see an arrow. It’s pointing that way,” she gestures. “South.”

“Okay but that’s not fair. It looks more like an arrow now, but it was a rocket before.”

“You’re just making excuses.”

“ _You’re_ making excuses. And look, I’m right. It’s moving.”

All the clouds are; they are slowly moving, gently shifting in a far-distant wind. Thinning out, breaking up into the slightest wisps, and floating on.

“And a rocket ship is more interesting than an arrow, anyway,” Harper adds.

Monroe huffs, a low rough exhale that Harper almost doesn’t hear, over the noise of the camp. Bellamy will show up soon, or one of his lackeys, and ask them what they’re doing just lying around. Literally lying around on the ground. But they have a few moments more, yet. Harper will take every extra second she can, Monroe’s arm against her arm, shoulder bumping against shoulder, leg against leg. Watching the sky and the tendrils of clouds, finally—after so many years above—from below.


	4. February 11: Raven/Gina; Direct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in the same universe as my fic _oh well, you've got me under your spell_.

Raven doesn’t care about _Julius Caesar_ —death, betrayal, stabbing, Brutus, whatever—and she’s not paying attention to Monroe and Sterling’s dramatic reading, either. She cares about Gina Martin. Gina, and the unruly stray curl that she keeps trying to push behind her ear. Gina, and the little curlicues and flowers she doodles in the margins of her notes. Gina, and her blue tennis shoes and blue painted nails, and the way she’s always glancing out the window at the gray rainy-autumn day, Gina and her small, neat handwriting sketched out across her notebook page.

If Gina were to turn to the right, for once, instead of out the window to her left, she might notice that Raven, one row over and one seat down, has been staring at her every day for the past two weeks. And she might find that odd. So perhaps it’s better that Gina doesn’t seem to notice her at all.

They’ve had a total of three conversations, which is something, at least. Gina does know that she exists. (Everyone knows that Raven exists—top of every class and one of the best athletes in the school and she tends to get noticed, that’s just the truth.) But she doesn’t know, probably, that Raven’s chest fills with a flurry of bright neon butterflies every single time she sees Gina smile. She doesn’t know that Raven has replayed their three conversations several hundred times each.

And this, too, is probably all for the best.

The last time they spoke, Gina mentioned an ex-boyfriend, in the casual and random way that girls can mention ex-boyfriends, just like that. Raven has spent more than an acceptable number of minutes parsing out what that might mean. On the one hand, she has an ex-boyfriend herself: a camp fling from the summer before high school, when she thought that liking boys was just what girls did. It didn’t mean anything then and it means even less now. Maybe Gina’s ex means something similar. On the other hand, if he means nothing, why bring him up at all?

It hurts her head to overthink something so—so **_stupid_**. She wants to stab her notebook with her pen, just stab all the pages all the way through. Like Brutus.

But then on the first hand again, sometimes, just from the way that Gina smiles at her, or the way she let her hand linger, once, on Raven’s arm just above the elbow, or the way she sounds just a bit like she might be flirting, when she teases and jokes—sometimes Raven gets the impression that Gina just might like her too.

Homecoming is in two weeks, and she’s building up the courage to find out.


	5. February 12: Clarke/Octavia; Pound

It’s possible, Octavia thinks later, that the words “I’m going to pound the _snot_ out of you,” actually came out of her mouth. Which, she sees now, is pretty dumb. Like a line she got out of a movie, and a bad movie at that; like a role she’s trying to play. It’s just that she has a lot of anger, she’s angry, okay, she’s angry that people keep on leaving her, and she’s angry about that whole big chunk of her childhood that she spent all but hidden away, just surviving, and she’s angry that that skanky bitch got in her way and started talking shit and she’s just— **done**.

But that doesn’t make yelling cliché eighties-sounding lines and scratching with her blunt nails and slapping in pathetic girl-fight mode any less embarrassing. They got dragged apart by a couple of teachers just as if they were children. And then she ended up in detention. But at least when she gets out, Clarke is there.

Clarke, who brings Octavia back to her house, gives her a frozen bag of peas for the eye that, Clarke predicts, will be a _real shiner_ by tomorrow, and then lets Octavia lie down with her head in Clarke’s lap and just talk about it, as much as she wants to. If she wants to. At first, she doesn’t say a word. She just closes her eyes and feels the way that Clarke’s fingers slip and tangle in her hair, and listens to the occasional scraps of tune that Clarke hums, and wonders if Clarke even knows she’s humming.

“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” Octavia asks. She takes the peas away for a moment, and tilts her head back just enough to look Clarke in the eye. Probably her own eye is worse than it seems, because Clarke would usually find this sort of adolescent shit really tiring, but today she just looks sorry, and a little sad. Maybe she’s just in a mood.

“No,” Clarke sighs. She had to think about it, though. And she smiles a little after, like this lie is a joke they share between them. “Not an idiot. Hey, we’ve all done dumb shit, right?”

Octavia can’t think of a single dumb thing Clarke has done, or at least, not _this_ dumb. Not fighting in school dumb. Not making a scene dumb.

“I guess,” she answers, unconvinced.

Clarke leans down and presses a kiss to Octavia’s forehead. Then she takes the frozen peas and sets them on the coffee table, and instead laces her fingers with Octavia’s fingers, and brings their hands down to rest together on Octavia’s stomach. It’s nice. It's—like, the one really nice thing that’s happened all day. And Octavia can feel herself smiling, despite herself.

“I guess so,” she says again, and closes her eyes. She wonders if maybe this, right now, sitting like this, gentle like this, is Clarke’s dumb thing. If she’s scared and thinks this softness might be a mistake. Octavia hopes not. But just in case, she vows to herself to do better, to allow herself, sometimes, a bit of softness of her own.


	6. February 17: Clarke/Raven/Octavia; Ambiguous

The relationship remains ambiguous for a long time. But Clarke finds she doesn’t really care: she doesn’t need words as long as she knows where she stands. And girls are allowed to be so expressive, so soft with each other in public, and Octavia’s only ever had boyfriends, and Raven’s still in the closet, and they’re all roommates and good friends anyway, so no one ever asks. As long as they don’t ask each other, they’re fine.

When the friend group gathers for movie nights they take the sofa and cuddle up together, sometimes Clarke in the middle, sometimes Raven, sometimes O. At home when they eat dinner their feet bump up and tease each other under the table. Then at night she’s just as likely to be in one of their beds as in her own, and it’s not always the three of them, but at least once a week, it is, and she’s gotten more than a little used to waking up with Octavia’s arm around her stomach and Raven’s nose poking right into the soft spot of her neck. They share an increasing number of inside jokes and have each other’s coffee orders memorized. (The most suspicious anyone has ever gotten was once at the coffee shop on Walden when Octavia brought back a latte for Clarke, a mocha for Raven, a black coffee one sugar no milk for herself, without even asking, and Miller looked at her for a long moment with a wary narrowing of the eyes as if, just in that moment, it had clicked for him. But it was Miller, so of course he didn’t say a word.)

When she leaves for her 9am class, she always kisses Raven goodbye: once, short, on the mouth just as she heads out the door. It’s become the sort of bread-and-butter habit she could live the rest of her life on. It’s nice. It’s soft and sweet, like coming home late after her Thursday night work shift to Raven’s laptop blaring 90s pop-rock and Raven and Octavia dancing through the kitchen in their sockfeet. She stood in the doorway, watched them trip over each other and then crash, giggling, right into the fridge. Octavia tipped her head back and laughed to lose her breath. Raven let her hands fall from Octavia’s shoulders, down to her hips, where they balanced as gently as a butterfly’s wings until they finally kissed.

And Clarke watched them together and just smiled, a swell of sweet affection cresting in her. She wondered if perhaps she was in love.


	7. February 21: Clarke/Raven; Moaning

The walls in Raven’s apartment complex are thin, which is how she first hears Clarke, moaning in the bedroom of 413B. Raven’s in her own bed, on the opposite side of their shared wall, staring up at her ceiling. Listening. Telling herself that she’s annoyed, she’s annoyed, can’t these people just be _quiet_ , can’t this woman just shut _up_ —other people are trying to sleep! Or, at least, rest a little, and think, except she can’t even hear her own thoughts with this bed-pounding-against-drywall racket and all of those breathy sharp oh’s bleeding through. It’s distracting. Now all she can picture is a beautiful woman with her back arched and her head back and her mouth open, skin shining with sweat, legs—

Or maybe she’s on top, just riding—

It’s so dumb. Raven knows her neighbor, a little, and he’s not worthy of a woman who sounds like this woman sounds.

Worse: _Raven_ has never sounded like this woman sounds. No man has ever made her moan that way. Before tonight, she’d thought only porn stars faking enthusiasm carried on in just that way.

She turns over and buries her face in her pillow, throws her other pillow over her head and gives up pretending this isn’t a fantasy she’ll keep in deep storage until the very end of her days.

Clarke’s not the least embarrassed when they meet in the elevator the next morning. Raven’s never seen her before, doesn’t even know her name yet, but it’s pretty obvious exactly who she is. Her hair’s all a mess, her clothes look yesterday-wrinkled and she’s only wearing one sock. “Hi,” she says, looking up from rifling through her bag when she catches Raven staring. She smiles. “I don’t suppose you have a comb on you that I could borrow?”

Raven doesn’t. She doesn’t have words, either, and not because her neighbor’s one night stand is confident and bright and has the relaxed and wrecked and joyous look of someone on the far end of an unexpectedly good night but because: she’s so beautiful. And it is so much worse, knowing what she looks like, being able to put a face to the soundtrack of last night.

“Sorry,” she manages, at last. “I don’t.” She’s heading out to the garage, doesn’t have anything on her but her keys and her wallet, and only later, after Clarke has shrugged, and run her fingers a few times through her hair instead, and gotten off the elevator with a wave goodbye at Raven as she goes, does Raven think to herself that, well, of course. Clarke could see she was traveling light. So it was just small talk then, to be polite, or to alert her to the obvious way she was gawking.

Or just to have an excuse to talk to her.

She straightens up, feeling a little smug as she steps off the elevator too. She just has this feeling, an irrational but positive feeling, like it was the second. Like out of the corner of her eyes, Clarke was staring at her too.


	8. February 25: Clarke/Raven/Octavia; Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in the same universe as Ch. 6, "Ambiguous."

This year, Octavia is in charge of planning Raven’s birthday party. Clarke is to handle the cake, but her main job is distracting Raven on the day of, so she doesn’t accidentally walk in on the blowing up of balloons or the setting out of food or the rearranging of furniture or the creation of the playlist. The cake, handmade, not store-bought despite Octavia’s warnings, comes out lopsided but (probably) edible. And distracting Raven goes exactly as planned.

Mostly exactly as planned.

The whole morning, while Raven was safely in class and out of the way, Octavia and Clarke bickered over the lopsidedness of the cake, the ability of their guests to keep a secret birthday party secret, the logistics of moving the couch. Octavia reminded Clarke at least a half-dozen different times that the party started at seven, and that she had to be on time, and this not because Clarke was prone to lateness or unreliability but because Octavia, when caught up in what her older brother has long referred to as her ‘general mode,’ is near insufferable with power, puffed up with a controlling attitude that Clarke recoils from more than most, because she has an attitude to match.

Next year, of course, all of this will be hers to put together, and she’s already sure she’ll do a much better job. She slams the door on her way out and starts planning out the bash she will throw 365 days from now as she drives to the little sandwich spot on Walden where she and Raven always meet for lunch.

“Fighting with Octavia again, were you?” Raven asks, before Clarke can even take off her coat and sit down.

Clarke winces, and falls into her chair with a sigh. “How’d you guess?”

“I know that look.” Raven picks up a menu and folds it open, then adds lightly, “Just don’t tell me you were arguing about my birthday. You’re my two favorite girls in the world.” A small, slight grin. “Your gift can be to play nice.”

“Oh, we’ll play nice,” Clarke promises. Once the party’s in full swing and Raven’s happy and laughing and eating uneven but delicious cake, they’ll play nice. Forgive and forget and all that. Kiss and make up. Clarke isn’t worried about that.

All she cares about now is turning Raven away from this birthday topic to something a little more discreet. If she guesses that they’re throwing her a surprise party, Octavia will go off right through the roof.


	9. February 26: Clarke/Maya; Fizz

Fizzz—

Clarke pulls back the tab on the can of lemonade sweating in her palm. It bends slowly.

She’s standing on the boardwalk under the heat of the July sun, sweat gathering across her forehead and on the bridge of her nose. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, but a few stray strands escape and curl down over her temples and the sides of her sunglasses. She looks out sometimes at the water and sometimes at the people walking past, in their sundresses and t-shirts, sandals or flip-flops on their feet.

All morning she’s been in her apartment, window open to the beach sounds (bright laughter, reckless shouting, the slap-slap of zigzag running) and her fan on, trying to paint. Trying to get back into art.

The last time she was here, she was immersed in it—the last time, when she met a girl. That is probably, she can admit to herself, why she came back. A girl who wore sleeveless sundresses with wide shoulders or no shoulders and yellow shoes and who owned a gallery down not too far from where Clarke was living at the time, and who liked to argue about everything: modern art, the Renaissance, the new large-form sculptures just installed down in the park; sometimes, most infuriatingly, about the future. Theirs, specifically. Clarke would tangle her legs up around Maya’s and trace her finger slowly down the ridge of her nose and change the subject, because she just wasn’t ready, then, to look that far ahead. She wasn’t ready to admit that much.

And now—

Still unsure.

But Maya agreed to meet. And now as Clarke stares out to the horizon, she can see her. Blue dress today, hands in her pockets with the thumbs hooked on the outside, sunglasses perched on top of her head. Not smiling yet. Possibly hasn’t even seen Clarke yet. Possibly hasn’t started looking, yet. But she’s here.

The tab gives way.

Pop.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/).


End file.
